Breathing

I am a survivor.

It's taken me a long time to be able to say those words without adding an explanation or proviso. 

I am a survivor of childhood sexual abuse and 2 rapes as an adult.

For years I kept it all buried deep, deep down in box covered in detritus and cobwebs. I never tried to make the box pretty, I just covered it up with everything else I could find to do. Anything to keep that box closed and sealed.

Except there was this one memory that kept leaking out. Every time it oozed out I was horrified by it. I knew it was true. Knew it had happened, but I took it all on myself. Yes it was done to me, but I had participated. Clearly I was at fault. Clearly I couldn't tell anyone because then they would know that my whole life was just an act -- a costume to cover up the horribleness that was me.

The year I was 38 something cracked in the box. The lid just wouldn't stay closed anymore. Other things started oozing out and wrecking havoc in my carefully established veneer of a life. It was a million tiny things pressing on the lid, but eventually the lid blew right off. And I was faced with a lot of stuff I had buried so deeply that it felt like an excavation to uncover reality. 

I've been excavating ever since. It's been hard and painful, and life giving and fulfilling. I've lost some things and people a long the way, and I've recognized that some of those things aren't really lost, because I never had them in the first place. 

I've grieved a distorted childhood and vacuous relationships. I've wished for the opportunity to give my children a better childhood, one that didn't involve a mother coming unglued and piecing herself together again.

At 51 I'm still learning the lesson that life is never perfect. Perfect and happily ever after are storybook notions that we've tried to turn into reality. Most days I take everything a day, an hour, or a minute at a time. I don't plan too far into the future. I don't think it's negativity. I think it's an acceptance of now. That now is all I have, and life changes on a dime.

Would I trade in my history for a different one? Probably not. Am I glad I went through what happened? Definitely not. But the net is this, everything we experience, whether good, bad, or neutral, informs who we are. And how we handle and address joy and adversity teach us about ourselves and the world around us. 

I'm not perfect, but I've learned I wasn't meant to be perfect. So I'm taking perfect off the to-do list, and learning to live with being just me. Flaws and all. It's not always pretty, but I'm breathing easier.

Blessings.

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I Am a Survivor

brave -- having or showing courage
(courage -- mental or moral strength to venture, persevere, and withstand danger, fear, or difficulty)

I was okay with "brave" until I read the definition of "courage". Now I'm not so sure.
Here's the problem: people call me brave. Brave for telling my story; sharing my fear; being transparent. Courage is a whole different story. "Courage is fear that has said it's prayers." I can work with that. I think of the Cowardly Lion in The Wizard of Oz talking about courage, and I relate to him, because he's terrified. But then I read that definition, and I shrink from it. But I'm a librarian and word geek and an authority slut. So I'm stuck. 

Webster's defines brave as courage, and courage as having mental or moral strength to venture, persevere, and withstand danger, fear, or difficulty. So if I'm brave, then I'm courageous. And if I'm courageous then I'm all those things that Webster says, and that just doesn't feel accurate. Because I'm the screw-up, the black sheep, the boat rocker, the troublemaker. Because it's a compliment, those words: persevere and withstand danger -- and compliments don't apply to me.

It's circular reasoning, I know, but I'm still stuck with the feeling or maybe even the belief that anything good can't be true about me. 

So I pull myself out of the equation.

A woman in her late 30's comes to the realization that she was abused repeatedly by numerous people when she was a child. She endured 2 rapes as an adult. She walks into a therapist office terrified and sick, but swears she won't leave until the work is done. Until she's figured it all out (as much as is possible). She carries on as a wife and mother while untangling her ugly, painful, terrifying history. She confronts some of the abusers and those who neglected her and allowed the abusers into her life, and it doesn't go well. But she carries on. Putting one foot in front of the other working so hard to get them to understand. So hard that she makes herself ill from it. And when she can't take their denials anymore, she walks away and realizes she's healthier without them in her life. 

She starts to write and talk and tell, finding that it helps her heal and it helps others as well. She blogs. She journals. She talks to anyone who will listen with an open heart. And she finds support, acceptance, understanding, compassion. She finds her voice and realizes she is proud of herself and all the hard work she has done.

People call her brave and courageous. Open, inspiring, and transparent. 

I read her story and I am impressed. I think she is indeed brave and courageous. And I remind myself that she is me. 

I am a survivor of childhood sexual abuse and 2 rapes as an adult. I have persevered, withstood danger, fear, and difficulty. 

I am brave and courageous because I am a survivor.

linking up with Writer's Workshop and imperfect prose

The Slap

I've been letting God redeem my childhood for the past several years. It's been a hard battle, but well worth the struggle.

Yesterday I addressed another episode from my past and I made some headway. The incident occurred a few years after the primary abuser had left my life, and before the last abuser's appearance. 

I was probably 10 or 11 years old, and yet there are aspects of the event that I remember so clearly. The heat on my face following the slap. The effort it took to keep my hand from flying up and slapping her face back. My immediate concern of what other's would think. And that recurring vision of myself as stupid, clumsy, and inept. 

Being slapped is supremely humiliating and demeaning. I wonder sometimes if that's why women use slaps as often as they do. It serves a dual purpose -- causing pain and humiliation simultaneously. With my history being slapped raised all kinds of red flags and triggers. I was shocked and terrified. I had thought I was finished with being the victim. I had thought I was safe at school -- in public. I had thought I had nothing to fear in this current environment. I was wrong. Again.

After the slap, climbing into my mother's car to go home, I felt much the same as I had after much more intense episodes. I was hot and sweating. I felt disconnected and disoriented. I wasn't sure how this had happened, nor did I understand why the attacker was not being reprimanded. What I did know was there was no point in telling. She would deny the slap, and somehow turn it around and make it my fault. It was -- as always -- a no win situation.

Looking back on it now it's easy to see these correlations. To see connections and logical reactions that were not readily available to me at the time. 

And I realize I hold an inordinate amount of anger and hate toward this person. Anger and hate that only hurt me at this point. That's why I'm dragging it all out now, all these years later. It's not about retribution. It's about healing. It's about not letting "them" hurt me anymore. It's about not being their tool to continually inflict pain on me. 

So I'm asking God to lead me. To show me where He wants me to go. And I'm trusting that He'll keep walking with me, redeeming the days.

linking up with imperfect prose

Present

It can be difficult to remain in the present when the past keeps trying to swallow me. But I'm working on it.

The most important time in anyone's life is now -- the present. 

The past impacts, informs, and teaches us. 

The future motivates, inspires, and pulls us.

But the present is here . . . this moment . . . all we really have.

So I'm working on living in the present moment. That doesn't mean ignoring the past or not hoping for the future. What it does mean is fully embracing the present by recognizing it, being in it, staying focused on the now.

I don't think about the future that much. I'm more capable of seeing it without running toward it. But the past. The past is a different issue all together. I don't choose to dwell on it or in it, but it rears it's ugly head most days in one form or another.  What I've found is it's best to acknowledge it for what it was -- a very difficult time in my life that has left me with a boat load of bad habits and unhealthy coping mechanisms. However, the harder I try to escape the past, the more intrusive it becomes. So when those pictures, thoughts, flashes, and emotions come up, I'm working on learning to say, "I see you there. I understand you need to be addressed, but I'm choosing to set you aside for now. I'll come back to you at the time I have chosen to deal with your kind of issues. You don't get to choose anymore. I choose when and how and with whom I deal with the past."

Because I don't want to lose now, this present moment, because I was so busy trying to set right the past.

linking up with 5 Minute Friday

Beautiful

Rain. Solid steady soaking. It wasn't typical for July 4th. I figured people would be frustrated (even though we didn't have any plans). 

Stress and anxiety have been my companions of late. I woke up with them. But then as the day progressed and I kept it slow-paced I felt things begin to unwind. 

We grilled burgers and hot dogs. We sat around the den eating picnic food while it rained outside. 

And we began to talk. About everything and nothing. We laughed. A lot. Before I knew it 2 hours had gone by and we were still talking. Serious, planning, politics, religion, joking. We ran the gamut.

We scattered to do other things, but somehow all wound up together again. And it started it all over again.

We are all grown-ups now. The kids 23 and 20 (next week). It was beautiful.

My beautiful, rainy 4th of July.



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Sacraments

http://www.thelivingtruthfellowship.org/

You've been told all your life about the sanctity of Holy Communion. You've been told it's wrong to partake in it until certain rites have been completed. They've told you how wonderful it is. It will bring you closer to God and closer to those with whom you share it.

Imagine having holy communion shoved down your throat while you are being forcibly held down. Imagine they stuff the bread in your mouth and hold their hands over your mouth yelling at you to chew and swallow. Imagine they pour the wine down your throat in a river so you can't breathe or swallow, the whole time telling you to be quiet.

That's what child sexual abuse is like.

Then imagine that all the rites are completed and you are ready (according to the rules) to partake, and everyone around you is happy for you, but you feel dead inside and can't figure out why you're not reacting they way they told you would (should).

That's what sex after abuse is like.

I told my story in a ladies' class and then opened the floor for questions. One brave woman asked if the abuse had effected my sexual relationship with my husband. On the one hand I wanted to look at her and say, "Duh!", but on the other I wasn't sure exactly how to answer that question.

http://www.allsaintscville.org/

 Of course the answer is yes. In truth sex was one of the major reasons we went into marriage therapy years ago. And it's better . . . a lot better. But the truth of it is this, I will never know what it would have been like to give myself freely and without hindrance to my husband the first time, because that opportunity was stolen from me. 

It took a long time for things to improve in that area. We aren't where we want to be, but it's better than it was. It's been difficult for me to bring God into this area. My husband suggested praying before sex, and that seemed so odd to me. But why? Why is it any odder to pray before sex than it is to pray before a meal? Or communion? It helped me begin to put sex back in its proper perspective. It is a holy sacrament. A gift from God. What happened to me as a child didn't have anything in common with God's plan for sex. It was a perversion of the sacrament, but not because of me.

So I've been allowing God to redeem my sexual relationship with my husband. Because He is the only one who can.

linking up with imperfect prose and Write on Edge

just write

(Warning: triggering content)

We have to pick her up from her piano lesson as we head to the house. We are celebrating my grandmother's birthday. I have on my new fall outfit -- a wool pleated skirt in gold and red, and the matching gold cable knit turtleneck sweater. 

I don't want her in our car, but all I've succeeded in doing is making my father mad with my complaints. When she gets in the car, she has to sit between my sister and me. I look out the window, trying to ignore her. She pokes me in the side, but I still won't look at her. She pinches my thigh and I gasp and look at her. She has the mean eyes. It's going to be a very bad night.

After dinner, we all go into the den for dessert. Cake and ice cream. She tells me to eat fast. She wants to go play. And I fall for it all over again. How stupid am I? When will I learn that "play" is code for "beat the s**t out of you".

We get to her bedroom and she tells me to get a purse from her closet. Do I really think this is going to be fun, or am I just so programmed at this point? It's a black shoulder bag with a chain with the leather strap running through it. She unhooks the chain/strap and wraps it around my neck. She tells me I will do what she says and be quiet about it or she will strangle me. I will die and no one will care. 

I am 7 years old. I do what I am told to do.

I was right. It's going to be a very bad night.

linking up with Just Write

View

From here, the view, is sunny with white fluffy clouds. There is hope in the air, and a promise of the future.

Before -- back there -- the view was stilted. It was hopeless, clouded, and dismal.

The change in the view came from within. I expected the change to come from others around me, and circumstances shifting to improve the view. What I didn't know is that what I view is colored by how I view. 

Then I was looking at everyone and everything through the dirty, smudged glasses of lies, threats, and fear. Now I'm learning to look at the world through cleaned up glasses that show truth, reality, and hope. It's a process, and I'm not there yet, but maybe being "there" isn't the point.

The abuse laid a filter over of my view. It filtered out some of the good, and eventually, most of the good. I could only see the bad in myself, and when that's all you see it's a dark world you live in.

It's taken a lot of time, work, and effort, but that filter is thinning. I see a lot more good in myself, which makes the world look a lot better.

I'm enjoying the view from here.

linking up with Five Minute Friday

Validation

Validation is a huge part of recovery. Initially I sought validation from others. I tried talking with family members -- checking their memories of events. Any time they remembered even a small piece of the puzzle it helped me have a little more faith in my own memories. Validation = To establish the soundness of; corroborate. Synonyms --confirm.

So when my sister remembered the night I threw up at my cousin's house, it helped. When my dad volunteered that his uncle's whiskey of choice was Jack Daniels, it helped. When my mother suggested the name of an abuser I could only describe, it helped.

But validation comes in other forms as well. When I called and emailed the girlfriend of one abuser, and she wouldn't respond to me, my counselor showed me the validation in that. I figured she just didn't remember me. His take was different. Maybe I had scared the s**t out of her, because she thought I was going to "out" her.

Ultimately, validation, has to come from myself. I can't spend my whole life waiting for someone else to confirm my own memories for me. Validation is about trusting myself. Trusting my memories. Trusting my motivations. 

It's a long and curving road to that level of validation. I'm further down that road than I used to be, but I can quite see the end just yet.

linking up with Writer's Workshop

Taking Out the Trash

It's hard work. This cleaning up after another's life.

My father-in-law died on April 27th. Nearly 3 weeks ago. There have been extra things to do since then. 

Before he died, there was visiting with him, sitting with him, cooking for him. There was much praying for him, and in his later days, much hand holding with him. All extra things to do, but different.

Then it was care and concern for a human life. Prayer for a future life.

Now it is more like taking out the trash. I've been taking out trash my whole life, so I know how to do it. But this time there's a catch -- it's not my trash. It's someone else's, and who am I to say, "This is trash, but this is worthy of keeping because he kept it"?

I am just the daughter-in-law. Not even a blood relative. 

Sometimes I catch myself sounding cold and unloving -- unChristian -- about this man's detritus. 

All the stuff we strive for and hold on to, and when it's all said and done someone else will cull through it all determining it's value. 

So last night I met some men at his house. They were from a local church here in town. They are having a yard sale to raise money for their youth group on Saturday. They loaded up bags and boxes of my father-in-law's clothes and possessions to take for their sale. I was relieved to see the clutter walk out the door, but a little anxious too. It's gone. Irretrievable. 

As they left, one man took my hand, and said, "This is a good thing you are doing. I know it's hard, but it will get better." He talked of cleaning his mother's house out after she died, and how it made him look at his life, and make some changes.

I've talked with lots of people in past few weeks I would never have talked with otherwise. And it's been good for me. I have difficulty connecting with others, but I've done pretty well so far.

And maybe that's the gift my father-in-law left to me. Not his furniture or dishes, but the opportunity to do some reconnecting. To be reminded that I am capable of handling things. Even the hard things.

For me that's the best proof of healing.


linking up with Imperfect Prose on Thursdays

Reconnecting

It had been 16 months since I'd seen my parents.

My father-in-law died a week and a half ago. My husband and I had discussed whether or not to invite my parents to the funeral. We both agreed it seemed petty to delete them.

We've been in touch via email for the past few months. I had to take a break from my relationship with them to focus on my own healing. You'd think they would be instrumental in helping me heal from childhood sexual abuse (as they were not the abusers), but they haven't been. They've dragged me down. Infused me with guilt. Defended at least one abuser while maintaining a relationship with him. 

They say one set of things, but their actions tell a different story.

I had wondered how we might reconnect. I thought there would need to be a cathartic movie scene. Crying, yelling, apologies, brilliant insight -- all set to swelling music with the scene ending in a warm embrace.

It wasn't like that at all. I was pleased to see them at the visitation. Grateful that my mother had arranged to bring food for those of us there. Deeply thankful when she led my daughter away to regroup and get some food.

I sat and chatted with my dad. Nothing of importance. I felt myself beginning to slip into the old persona, but I stopped myself. 

After the funeral, they were complimentary of the music choices, my husband's comments, and a reading I had done. (They are professional mourners, as a friend of mine says, so they tend to critique funerals.)

I took a moment to tell them that I appreciated their giving me time to heal. They assured me they only wanted to do what I needed. I believe they mean that. There are just aspects of the situation that they are unwilling or unable to follow to the logical conclusion.

The next day I got an email from them --

We thought everything last night was appropriate and well done. Both you and Alan did your parts extremely well. We were proud of both of you. We hope all goes just as well today.

Here is our itinerary for the trip. We will be home on Saturday, May --, about 7:00 or 7:30, if the plane is on time.

Thank you for your wonderful response to us.

So now I am back in touch with my parents. I don't know what that means. I don't know if I can maintain appropriate boundaries for myself. 

I hope so. 



linking up with Just Write

Night

The dark night of the soul is what St. John of the Cross called it. That difficulty in letting go of this world, and moving on to the next. In modern times the term has been used to describe a spiritual crisis caused by feeling separated from God. F. Scott Fitzgerald said, "In a real dark night of the soul it is always three o'clock in the morning".

Well, it's 3 o'clock in the morning for our family. My father-in-law is in his final days. As I sit here typing and sipping my tea, my husband sits at his father's bedside wondering how many more days or hours they have left together. As he slips away from us, we worry about him. His physical self -- is he in pain? His emotional self -- does he feel our presence and love? His spiritual self -- does he feel the peace of God?

But we are also consumed by the mundane aspects of dying. Scheduling, traveling for other family members, final exams for our son, starting a new semester for our daughter. 

My husband said the other night, "Can you just tell me when it will happen?" Of course he didn't expect an answer, but this not knowing, this waiting, is so hard.

So it's perpetually 3 AM for us. And it will get darker. But I'm focusing on the rising sun, and knowing it's all temporary anyway. This dark night of the soul will pass.

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Remember

Remember . . . 

I remember sitting at the table for lunch. The other girls were talking and laughing. Ann was getting sandwiches ready for us. White bread with cheese. Milk to drink.

She sat my plate down in front of me. The one girl ask what was wrong with me, and the other girl said, "She's in a bad mood" while Ann said, "She's just tired".

The girls went back to talking. I sat immobilized -- too tired, stunned, shocked to eat.

They finish their lunch, and Ann shoos them outside to play. She tells me to go lie down. She'll save my sandwich for later. She never does that.

I lie down on the bed (which is never allowed once the bed is made). Ann covers me with an afghan. Why is she being nice to me? I melt away into sleep.

Remember the barn? Remember the terrible things that happened there? I'd rather go to sleep instead.

linking up with Five Minute Friday

Fear

What's my biggest fear . . . 

This reminds of a post I wrote nearly a year and a half ago. 

What's my biggest fear? It's a ludicrous question to ask a survivor of abuse. I've got a list a mile long. The list shifts and fluctuates, but the one constant is this -- the fear of not being believed. 

It's a deeply rooted fear. Planted by abusers, and tended by those who didn't provide an environment of safety to risk telling. Then reinforced by those, who when told, didn't believe, even offering explanations of why I would make up these atrocities. Explanations that cast aspersions on my character, proving the lies the abusers told me are true.

According to Wikipedia, Fear is an emotion induced by a perceived threat which causes entities to quickly pull away from it and usually hide. It is a basic survival mechanism occurring in response to a specific stimulus, such as pain or the threat of danger. 

It takes a lot of people believing my story to counter the few who don't. 

Maybe that's why I keep telling it.

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Approving of Myself

So it's been a rough week. A flashback that led to a hard therapy session, that led to another flashback, that led to lots of memory pain and assorted issues that stem from the abuse. 

And now it's Monday morning, and emily is exhorting me to Dare to Love Yourself. I do love myself, don't I? I just have trouble approving of myself. Not judging myself. Not criticizing myself.

I know the abuse wasn't my fault. I know it as well as I can at this point. But there is that little voice in my head that says, each time something new comes up or something old comes around again, "You're just an attention whore. You just want to be the center of the universe and have everyone's undivided attention."

I stop and have that conversation with myself, again, about why would I make up stories? What's the point to it? What's the benefit to me of being in such pain that I spend a day curled up in bed trying to ward off the memory of pain inflicted on my body 45 years ago? Why can't I just let it go and move on? 

I asked my husband how I can be who I am today -- a college graduate with a Master's degree, the mother of 2 children, a wife, a cook, a homemaker, a friend, a writer(?), an encourager -- when all those awful things happened to me, and they keep floating around in my head hindering what I want to be doing? Doesn't my ability to function negate the likelihood that all those awful things really happened? And he put it in perspective for me, again. My assumption is anyone who is functional has never suffered. He reminds me that everyone has trouble and struggles. That we are all trudging along doing the best we can with whatever baggage we carry. And it helps all of us to help each other carry those loads.

So, do I love myself? Yes, but I need to work on it. I need to learn to love me as much as I love you. And while I'm at it, I need to cut everybody a little slack for bad days.

Peace.

linking up with a love dare

Distinctively Ordinary

Ordinary is just a variation on that word I crave -- "normal". Yet when I looked up the definition for ordinary is said, "with no special or distinctive features; normal". And I realize that definition doesn't fit anyone.

Everyone I know has something special or distinctive about them. That's what makes them them. So maybe it's true, what my therapist has told me for years, there is no normal.

If I assume that everyone has special or distinctive features, then the logical conclusion is that I do to -- I'm just not sure what they are. My go to response would be that I am a survivor of abuse, but I don't really want to be defined by that. 

What is ordinary for me is different than what is ordinary for you. And it's the same old song and dance for me to try and compare myself to others' in an effort to see myself and my life as "normal".  So once again, I see the foolishness in comparing myself to others. I am who I am in what is ordinary for me, because of all that I have experienced, and everyone who has touched my life.

So I choose to be ordinary in my own special and distinctive way.

linking up with Five Minute Friday

Names

As a teenager I kept a little book where I wrote down potential names for my future children. It never really occurred to me that my future husband might not like those names. Names that had good associations for me, like Ross (long before Friends) reminded him instead of the jerk from high school.

After we married, I kept an eye and ear out for names. I didn't really have many family names I was interested in using, and I didn't want my kids to have the same name as 5 other kids in the class.

I'm a librarian by profession. One day as I sat at my computer cataloging a title, I flipped open the book and saw the dedication page. To Claire and Sam. What lovely, real names. They struck a chord with me. I couldn't get those names out of my head. I needed a Claire and a Sam. But what if I didn't have a girl and a boy?

Later when I got pregnant the first time, I casually threw out Claire as a possible name. Nonchalantly. Just an idea. My husband said, "My grandmother's name was Clara." And I thought, "So's my dad's half-sister. I said CLAIRE." Over time it was settled. If the baby was a girl she'd be Claire. I'd already dreamed she was a girl with red hair, so I knew we were good.

So I got my Claire. But what about Sam?

Later when I got pregnant again, we decided to find out the sex. When they told me it was a boy, I thought "Sam".
Again that nonchalant suggestion. Even throwing out that it was a family name on my side -- temporary, pregnancy induced insanity making me forget that the family Samuel had been an incestuous, kidnapping murderer!

So he was Sam from the moment laying on the ultra sound exam table. Which was a good/bad thing when we nearly lost him. And a really good thing when he was born ridiculously healthy, but 5 weeks premature.

So that's how I got my Claire and Sam. I used to think that was kind of a pathetic story. I named my kids from the dedication page from a book I can't even remember the title or who wrote it. But now I think God was giving me a little message. Some hope that I was going to need down the road.

linking up with Writer's Workshop

5 Minute Friday -- Afraid

Afraid

A word with which I am all too familiar. 

My therapist asked me how did I used to feel, and I answered, "Afraid".

"Not all the time?" he queried.

"Yes all the time."

That was the first time I acknowledged it . . . out loud.

I was always afraid.

Afraid of what might happen.

Afraid of making a mistake.

Afraid of being misunderstood.

Afraid of being thought of as a liar.

Afraid - afraid - afraid.

That was also the first time I realized everybody didn't walk around this way.

Not everyone was afraid all the time. 

I had good reason to be afraid.

Life is unpredictable, but it takes on a special aspect for the abused child.

Unpredictable equals dangerous.

Living with danger just around the corner breeds fear.

But perfect love drives out fear, because fear has to do with punishment. (1 John 4:18)

So by opening myself up to perfect love . . . God's love, and recognizing that what I was told was love, wasn't, I'm learning to drive out fear. To not be afraid.

And it's amazing what you can see and hear and feel when you aren't afraid.

linking up witn 5 minute friday

Mrs. Corley

When I was in the first grade I broke my leg. On the merry-go-round on the playground at school. It made me a little famous. I got to go and tell kids in the other classes how I broke my leg, and how they could avoid the same experience. 

My first grade teacher was Mrs. Snyder. She had big bouffant hair and big glasses, and always wore a big pin, usually shaped like some kind of insect. And she threatened to flush us down the toilet if we didn't behave. I was a little afraid of Mrs. Snyder.

One day, while my leg was still healing, she left me sitting in the door of the classroom, alone, while the rest of the kids went to PE or recess. Now this was the '60's so that's not as terrible as it sounds, but I did get a little scared and lonely.

Just around the corner was the second grade classroom, where Mrs. Corley taught. I'd been to her class to share about the merry-go-round. Mrs. Corley came down the hallway and saw me crying and invited me back to her room until my class got back. What could be better than that? The celebrity 1st grader was going to spend the hour with the 2nd graders!

The next year I got put in Mrs. Corley's class. I was so excited, because I already knew her and liked her. Lots of my friends were in the class as well. Early in the year we had a fire drill. We were to walk outside in a straight line and stand in the 2nd grade spot without talking. I was never very good at not talking. And my best friend was in line with me. And it was a Friday. And I was going to spend the night at her house. So we may have talked. Just a little.

Mrs. Corley caught us. I saw my life pass before my eyes (it happened really quickly), and I knew that Mrs. Corley would never be nice to me again.

But that's not what happened. She told me she knew I was excited because I was going home with Trina, but it was very important to be quiet so I would hear important instructions if there were a real fire. She wrote my name on the board, but promised to erase it if I was good for the rest of the day. So I was very good. And she erased my name. And I got to go home with Trina. And Mrs. Corley was still nice to me.

Years later when my son was in elementary school at a different school, he came home telling me about a helper teacher in his class. I asked her name and he said Mrs. Corley. I practically ran to the school. Yes, it was my Mrs. Corley, and now my son was loving her just as I had. And better still she remembered me, and was loving my son the way she'd always loved me.

So thanks, Mrs. Corley, from 2 generations of talkative kids who really appreciate nice teachers.

Mrs. Corley last summer with some of her grandkids

linking up with the writer's workshop

again

it rolls over me like a wave, this lethargy.
it shocks me with its intensity, this anxiety.
how can they both exist simultaneously? how can i be exhausted and innervated at one time?
"you are strong, courageous, brave, and spiritual. you are suffering." 
can one person be all those things at one time?
he says, "pray without ceasing. just keep praying."
she says, "breathe. keep doing the relaxation breathing."
how do i accomplish the myriad of other responsibilities when expending all this energy just remembering to breathe?

abuse is incessant. it never really ceases. it simply changes format.

linking up with Five Minute Friday